


The Silent Time, or what happened on Anthorann and what happened at home

by INKQueen



Series: Anthorann AU [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: AU, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Crying, Death, Dick Grayson dies, Gen, Grief, I'm Sorry, Loss, Major Character Death AU, Prequel, Sequel, Spoiler Alert - Freeform, alien world, cursing, death au, everyone is crying, no comfort to this hurt just pain, yep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 19:56:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 7,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16144400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INKQueen/pseuds/INKQueen
Summary: This is a prequel and sequel to The Color of a Blue Sky in my Anthorann AU where Dick dies on an alien planet, based on a tumblr submission by Anonymous to @Camsthisky. This is a fan work and I do not own the rights to any of the fictional characters depicted here.





	1. 1

The boys were coming back to earth. Bruce was waiting for them, a curt “Well?” already balanced on the tip of his tongue. But when their figures solidified in the depths of zeta tube, there were only three.

And Jason was cradling Damian in his arms.

Words died and Bruce rushed forward, peeling his son out of Jason’s arms, which swung back down to his sides, limp. Bruce sat Damian on the edge of a desk, looking him over for injuries. There were none, yet if Damian weren’t sitting up on his own, Bruce would have thought he was comatose.

Silence reigned. Tim slid down the wall to sit a corner, his eyes as dead as Damian’s. Only Jason seemed even remotely present, anger diluting the glaze over his eyes. It was Jason that Bruce looked to.

The Batman does not get scared. But in that moment, the cape on Bruce’s shoulders meant nothing, just a weight pinning him to reality.

The words came out in a growl just barely louder than whisper.

“What happened.”


	2. 2

Dick stepped out of the zeta tube onto Anthorann, his long, brown, hooded poncho blowing in the gusts from transporter. He didn’t wear capes anymore, but it was still fun as heck to have lots of fabric on to swish around. Dick smiled a little and flicked the hem as he exited the station.

The twin suns in the sky turned the air warm and soft, despite the protection the city’s dome provided. Dick headed deeper into the sleepy city. He was going to the headquarters of the group that advocated democracy on this planet, the People’s Council. As he strolled past houses that looked like they were made of something like adobe, he rolled phrases around in his head, trying to keep the alien language fresh in his mind. He’d pulled the file from Tim’s database and done as much learning as he could as soon as John Gardner had given him the mission. But there was only so much new vocab he could cram into his head at one time. At last he found the address that John had given him. He’d only gotten turned around once.

He entered the foyer. Across the room, a Rannian waved at him and came trotting over.

“Your name ento son dor Gray?” the alien said. The pitch rose at the end of the sentence. Across all the languages Dick had encountered, that seemed to be the universal marker for a question. Dick was a bit relieved.

“Yes. My name is Dick,” he answered.

The alien looked confused, so Dick tried again. “Um, you might name me Dick.”

Their confusion cleared and they smiled, lips closed. Dick remembered that was the custom here. Gosh he was already getting a headache.

A few fumbling sentences later and Dick gathered that this Rannian was named Dyrnar, and was supposed to be his guide. They also sat on the Council, though they were the youngest member.

Dick followed Dyrnar through a set of sliding doors and down a long hallway. As they walked, passing doorways that lead to rooms crammed with desks and papers -- apparently office clutter was a universal constant as well -- Dick falteringly tried to confirm with Dyrnar the details of the situation as John had reported it to him.

“Fan, uh, fel Council of Peoples’ desire to, um, sorry, fel elections?”  he asked. Dyrnar seemed to grasp his meaning. 

“Yes. We orgar of you for the protection dor felar elections.” 

“Rel, um, relar, relor --” Dyrnar smiled encouragingly at Dick, who was cursing his unwieldy tongue “-- relar government, relar leader…” The word for control fell out of his brain. Thank goodness Dyrnar was so intuitive.

“The Monarch.” They used the noun form that indicated a title. “Mel superiors will speak tel estren-deson.”

Dick lost the last bit, but he figured the rest of the council would explain the rest.

They entered a large room with an oval table. Around it were seated six other Anthorannians, each looking sterner than the next. Dick was feeling thankful for Dyrnar, who indicated where Dick should sit. He sat, resting a hand on the table. It felt like packed sand.

“We welcome you.” The Anthorannian sitting at the head of the table addressed Dick.

“It is the height of my head to be here.” Dick used the formal greeting, which seemed to please the crusty aliens sitting around him.

“We are to now address fel-ast responsible of your work.”

Dick somewhat instinctively looked to Dyrnar, who passed a small round device to him; a translator. Dick was grateful. It was crude, and hopefully he wouldn’t need it for long, but for important information like this, he didn’t want the language to be a problem.

Dick clicked it on and the old Anthorannian began speaking. The words appeared in flickering green English, the grammar not quite right, but close enough. It was all mostly information that John had given Dick the short version of.

_ This our city planet is ruler by the Monarch. We, the People’s Council aim to have a democracy. To enact this, we will have elections. You will act as guardian for the elections, you will as worker undercover. We asked the Lantern Green Corps. for support to this change. The Monarch still grasps power and forbid any member of the Lantern Green Corps. From arrival in our city planet. You will be as ambassador for the Lantern Green Corps and for the People’s Council. You have are protection, diplomatic immunity from the Lantern Green Corps. and from the People’s Council. You are of a combat type, are and? _

Dick looked up, realizing the question was directed at him. “Uh yes.”

The head councilor nodded, satisfied, then said something else. Dick glanced back down at his train of words.

_ The Monarch has hired the militia. They (plural) maybe trouble somewhat, with attempt to stop the elections. _

Dyrnar leaned over and murmured something to Dick. The words  _ Heaven’s Fifty _ popped up in green. The translation clicked in his head and his stomach sank. Perhaps this mission wouldn’t be solely diplomatic as he’d hoped. He was suddenly glad he’d brought his suit and gear with him.

The head councilor spoke again.

_ We hope you will aid to bringing the government back to our people. _


	3. 3

“We couldn’t bring him back.”

Surprisingly, it was Tim who spoke after a long moment. Jason didn’t seem to trust what would happen if he opened his mouth.

“Why?”

Tim didn’t answer. Bruce went and crouched in front of his son, grasping his forearms and shaking him once.

“Did he need to stay on for the mission? Is that why he can’t come back?” Bruce knew the answer wouldn’t be that simple.

Tim shook his head, not looking at Bruce.

“Is he being held by the authorities?”

“No.” 

“Then what went wrong? Did the mission fail?”

“No, I don’t mean --”

“Is he injured? What happened?” Bruce’s desperation was growing for something fixable to be wrong. He shook Tim again.

“Tim! What is it?”

“No --”

“Is he imprisoned? Kidnapped --”

“No, no no --”

“Did he go off planet? Get lost --”

“No, NO --”

“TIM! TALK TO ME!”

“HE’S DEAD!”

Tim finally looked up at him, tears streaming down his face. Bruce was trembling and his grip on Tim way too tight. Tim’s words, ‘we couldn’t bring him back.’ It was his body that they’d failed to bring home.

“Dick’s dead, Bruce.” Jason broke the silence, his voice a flat crust over raw emotion. “Killed in action.”


	4. 4

The action in the square was heating up.

Dick had tucked himself into a doorway to watch the announcement in the square, looking like little more than a tall shadow in his long dusty hooded cloak. The elections would be officially announced today. By the Monarch no less, though everyone knew they didn’t want it. Only pressure from the People’s Council and their desire to maintain their image had convinced the Monarch to officially allow the elections. Everyone was expecting trouble.

The Monarch. They did have a name, Camord E Zan. They tried to discourage people from using it, preferring an air of mystery and idolatry. They stood on a high balcony, a seething crowd below. The crowd had begun with yelling and had now something had been thrown. Dick held at the ready, tension singing through his muscles. A square full of angry people was a riot waiting to happen, not helped by the mercenaries around the perimeter. Oh yes, some of the Heaven’s Fifty had showed today, easily recognizable and escalating the situation with scowls and jabs at any citizen that got too close.

“Who throw it?!” One of them was demanding of the people at the front of the crowd. They must’ve used the past tense and Dick had just misheard. He leaned out of the elevated doorway to see better over the crowd in the bowl-shaped square. There was some shoving and the member of the Heaven’s Fifty slammed his weapon into a citizen’s shoulder. The shouting ramped up a notch, and the Monarch just stood impassively above it all.

Then a mercenary pulled a young person out of the crowd and whacked them viciously over the shoulder with their club. Another person broke from the crowd, pushing towards the citizen they’d singled out, screaming. They were hauled up by another mercenary and Dick realized it was Dyrnar.

He moved instantly, shoving his way through the masses. The pitch of the mob escalated again when the citizens realized a member of the People’s Council had been grabbed. Some crowded forwards, others back. They were all in Dick’s way. No one seemed to see him, pushing his way through.

“Move!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. They just kept jostling him and he couldn’t see out from under this damned hood.

He pulled it off one handed, unsheathing his eskrimas with the other. The sudden flash of bright blue of the emblem on his chest against the drab of the colors all around made the people around him turn to look.

“Move!” he shouted again, and this time they did, staggering back. Dick pushed a few more feet forward, then pushed off a nearby shoulder and vaulted upwards.

Boy was Dick glad he’d worn his suit today. He wouldn’t need the protection of the Kevlar against bullets; Dyrnar had explained that when firearms had first made their way to Anthorann from other worlds, the Monarch had outlawed them as too dangerous, put in place strict trade controls and confiscated the rest. No, it wasn’t bullets he was worried about today but fists and clubs.

At the top of his arc, Dick grabbed a low hanging banner wire and, using his eskrima as a handle, slid down it towards the front of the crowd. Below him, he could hear people gasping and could see the ripple of attention he was pulling. Cripes, there went undercover for him. Oh well.

He dropped into the space between to citizens who nearly fell over themselves. He didn’t have to shove the last few feet to the edge; people were clearing out of his way.

Dyrnar was still yelling their head off, a knife held to his throat, while the first mercenary continued to beat the living daylight out of the young citizen.

Dick threw his baton as he ran past. It smacked the thug holding Dyrnar upside the head. Dyrnar had the good sense to lunge out if the thug’s reach while they were disoriented. Dick barely checked to make sure his friend was okay before yanking the first mercenary off the beaten citizen by the back of their collar. They staggered back past him, almost to the edge of the crowd.

The citizen they’d been beating on had a bruise forming over nearly half their face and blood running from their nose. Dick bent down to offer them a hand up, outrage boiling under his skin. They accepted allowing themselves to be pulled to their feet, then Dick placed himself between them and the thug who was charging towards them swinging. Dick evaded the first few strikes, then parried another to get under the thug’s guard. He pushed forward to keep the citizen behind him protected. A few well placed jabs later and the mercenary fell back on their butt with a whoomph. Dick retreated to the side of the lone citizen.

“You are an offworlder,” they remarked. “Why would you provide me aid?”

“It is my mission,” Dick said, the words only a little unruly un his tongue. “As well, I am unable to see a person take harm.”

The Rannian beamed at him through closed, swollen lips. Dyrnar came up next to them with a deft sidestep and handed back Dick’s other eskrima.

“What is our next movement?” They murmured to Dick. Several more members of the Heaven’s Fifty were beginning to approach the area. Dick didn’t want to start a fight here. It would set the crowd off.

“Stop.” A voice boomed over the rumble of the crowd. It was the head of the People’s Council, making their way down through the crowd. They were holding an amplifier. “There will be no fight here today.”

The tension in the crowd loosened somewhat. The vast majority of the citizens obviously held a lot of respect for the Council and its leaders.

The Heaven’s Fifty looked up at the Monarch, who nodded serenely, then turned and vanished from the balcony. The militia membered began fading inelegantly away into the crowd.

The head councilor, accompanied by a few other members of the council, finally reached the front where Dyrnar and Dick stood. They turned to address the crowd.

“The vote will go through!”

Clapping and a few whoops greeted the statement.

“To be sure of this, The People’s Council has brought an offworlder to protect the process of returning the government to our hands.”

The head councilor leaned towards Dick, and it took him a moment to figure out what the Rannian wanted.

“Nightwing,” he muttered to the councilor.

“This Nightwing, they will be our champion in the fight for democracy! Our is as much worthy as to have the aid of the hero of another world! For the people!”

The square erupted into cheers. Dyrnar was clutching Dick’s arm in excitement, and the head councilor took the other and pulled it up over Dick’s head like a champion boxer.

Dick grinned, part sheepish, part exhilarated, even though it was against custom to smile with showing teeth,  someone near him gasped and Dick laughed. The laughter caught on, echoing and reverberating around the square and Dick could feel the glow of hope.


	5. 5

Laughter echoed around the corner and into the room, reverberating off the metal and sending a shudder through Bruce. The sound was so wrong for the weight on his heart right now.

Barbara rounded the corner into the room, Alfred behind her, pushing the wheelchair.

“I’m so sorry, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, mustache twitching. “I know we’re not supposed to be up here in the Watchtower, but Miss Gordon absolutely insisted on seeing…”

Bruce watched the atmosphere in the room hit them like a wave.

“Where’s Dick?” Barbara asked. 

_ Where is… _ fill in any name. Such a benign question.

Barbara read the answer in the faces around her. A curtain of hair hid her face as she ducked her head. Bruce watched her pull off fogged glasses and stuff a hand into mouth as her body began to shake.

Alfred on the other hand went stock still. No tears; no, Alfred’s eyes barely glistened. But years upon years of loss had taught Bruce to see the butler’s grief. And this hit him like a truck.

Jason finally spoke, forcing his tone to be as normal as possible through a throat of cut glass. “Here’s what happened.”


	6. 6

“Here’s what’s happening.”

Dick nearly had to jog to keep up with Dyrnar. The Rannian had taken to briefing Dick on whatever the Council wanted to discuss on the walks from the door to the council room. Dick often wondered if there would ever be anything he could do to pay Dyrnar back for all the kindness they’d shown him. They honestly felt like his only friend on this side of the universe.

“The People’s Council wants to make the figurehead officially for the movement. Or, I say rather, your Not You.”

They waved vaguely at Dick’s whole body, referring to the suit hidden just beneath the drab cloth.

They entered the Council room and took their usual seats. The Head councilor surveyed Dick over steepled fingers while the rest sat back, a few with satisfied smiles on their faces.

“The impact you have made on this city as the Nightwing has been of great magnitude. We were skeptical about whether an Offworlder would be accepted by the people, but now we understand why the Green Lantern Corps. chose to send you to us. You are an excellent candidate to represent us to the people. If even an Offworlder supports our cause, surely it will generate more energy in the city for us. We would like to do this for us. We wish to, or the Nightwing rather, to be a public face for us. You will make appearances and stand on the platform with us.”

They paused, and Dick had just enough time to register that their use of the term platform was both the literal and the symbolic. They expected him to be on board with their movement hell or high water.

“Will you do it?”

Dick hesitated. He glanced at Dyrnar. His friend was trying hard to hide their hope. The faces in the crowded square were just behind their eyes. Dick was quickly coming to realize that, political or no, he just might do anything for the people of this city. They were almost as much his as the people of Gotham.

His reservations, not gone, went still. “I’ll do it.”


	7. 7

Barbara had gone still. Tim sat shuddering in the corner. Damian still sat glassy-eyed on the desk. There was no sound except Jason’s rough murmur, filling Bruce in on what had occurred on their trip to Anthorann. He described seeing the holographic memorial, but when he started to talk about the stone coffin, his voice trailed off into the quiet. He finally punctuated his sentence by punching the nearest wall. It gave a resounding clang and Jason collapsed into a chair, swearing.

Bruce still stood, silent and hard. Slowly the attention in the room turned to him, waiting.

“Go back. Get him.” Bruce’s voice was tight as tripwire.

Jason raised an eyebrow, and Tim stared. Even Damian turned to look at his father. But they understood. Anthorann could keep the monument to their savior, but Gotham’s heroes were buried on the manor grounds, among their family.

“Bring him home.”


	8. 8

Dick wanted to go home. Or maybe, he amended the thought as he wandered the streets on his way back to the house he was staying in, he wanted home to come to him. The election felt right around the corner and Dick was under more pressure than ever, mostly to make more appearances as Nightwing, and he didn’t really understand the Council’s reasoning.

The Heaven’s Fifty were underground and the Monarch had stayed quiet since their public announcement of the election, yet the Council wanted Dick to be making speeches daily. Dick had point blank refused to do any public speaking at all. He fully supported the cause, as much as anyone, but being the Council’s mascot behind the mask was not what he’d signed up for.

All in all, he was frustrated, and he just wanted Tim there to tell the logical reasons behind everything with a sideways grin, and for Babs to give his arm a squeeze and tell him to stick it to the man.

He came to the house where he was staying, and went in. Brushing past the doorway, through which he could see his host family eating dinner, Dick climb the steps quickly, trying to outpace his anxiety. Of course, being in his room simply shut his worries in with him. He paced, sat down on his bed, stood up again. Eventually, he settled at his desk, rubbing his fingertips over the rough surface.

He wished they were here but they weren’t. He wished he understood what was going on, but he didn’t. Not well enough, anyway. He wished, he wished...

Dick stood from his chair, shrugging off his frustrations. He went to the trunk at the end of his bed and threw it open, moving aside a few clothes to pull out the communicator. 

Dick had asked Dyrnar for it a little while back, when the government announced the zeta tubes would be offline until after the election. For the safety of everyone involved. Couldn’t have illegal weapons or firearms venturing on planet. Or, heaven forbid, anyone escaping. Or so the Monarch had said.

Dick had wanted some way of getting in contact with his family in case of emergency. And though this wasn’t an emergency, he liked to be preemptive, especially with this thing.

The communicator was old tech, with an actual dish and keyboard. Basically ancient. It would send the message via actual waves through space, and so, would take time. Dick just hoped it would reach his family before he really needed them.

He plugged in a date and time stamp, pulled out the microphone and began to record.

“Bruce, and Tim if you’re there, things are getting precarious here on Anthorann. The elections are all set to go, but tensions are super high…”


	9. 9

“All set to go?”  
The question felt stupid on Bruce’s tongue. Of course they were ready to go. And of course, how would they ever be?  
Barbara had been unreasonable about staying. She’d wanted to go; of course she had. Even Barbara, the most logical of them all, had been lost to the reasons Bruce provided for her not to join his sons.  
Then Damian, seeming roused by Barbara’s grief-stricken shouts, had hopped off the table and approached her.   
For a few moments he’d just stared at her, gripping the arms of her chair and matching her watery gaze beat for beat.  
“I’ll make sure he gets back safe,” he’d said, his voice impossibly big and small.  
After that she’d agreed to stay behind.  
The part of Bruce’s brain that had asked his sons if they were ready to go for their mission had also been skeptical about whether or not it was a good idea for Damian to be going at all. But Bruce’s world rocked like a ship caught in a silent storm, everyone he loved swept up in a wave, cast out where he couldn’t reach them.  
The zeta tube hummed to life. Barbara sat white-knuckled in her chair. Bruce watched his sons fade in the fuzzing white. When travelling by zeta tube, two people touching was usually against code for safety reasons, yet Tim had a guiding hand on Damian’s shoulder.  
Alfred came up to stand just behind Bruce’s shoulder, right where he belonged, and spoke words that Bruce wished could’ve stayed curled up in the silence.  
“I’d hoped this day would never come.”


	10. 10

The day of the vote had come. Dick could hear a huge crowd murmuring outside in the square. He and a few members of the council were holed up in the upper story of voting building. Dick was in costume; everyone knew that Nightwing would  need to make an appearance.

They’d erected a small platform outside in the square. It had been meant for making speeches. Now, it was just a gathering place for the militia. They were crowded around it, the leader, a tall hard looking person called Tarwin, stood on the platform itself, scowling around at the crowd of citizens and whacking a club against their open palm. 

“They won’t let anyone inside to vote,” Dyrnar said.

“But it looks like the entire city turned out for the vote anyway,” Dick countered, feeling optimistic as he peeked through the curtain.

“But no one’s willing to face down fifty fighters to get inside.”

Dick looked at them. “All fifty? They’re all here?”

“We’re fairly certain.”

Dick let out a low whistle. “The Monarch isn’t playing around.” He unsheathed his eskrima sticks and headed up the stairs that would take him to the roof. “Well, let’s get this party started.”

There were gasps and cheers as the crowd caught sight of him at the edge of the open rooftop. He waved to the crowd, grinning, and wind gusted his hair. He did a quick angle check, then jumped. He heard the crowd shriek and yell as he somersaulted down over the heads of the militia to land between the platform and the crowd. He hit the dusty ground, rolled once, and popped up, grin still in place. The crowd of citizens went nuts. It was good to have an audience again. 

One of the militia behind him growled, and the gravity of the situation sank back in. He turned to face them, still grinning brightly.

“Good morning, friends. I understand you’re here to stop these people from voting. Can I convince you to reconsider?”

“You dare name us as friends, Nightwing? You, off-worlder, who interfere and interrupt the nature of our society?” one of the fighters returned, loudly enough for the whole square to hear.

Dick stood tall in front of the thousands of citizens, and he could feel their collective gaze heavy on his shoulders. “I may not belong to your planet, but I am here as the representative of the People’s Council. And more than that, I am here to represent the desires and wishes of the people of your planet, your citizens.”

“The Monarch represents the will of the people!” another fighter spat.

“Clearly not, or thousands of them would not be here today to help create a new government.” The words slid easily off of Dick’s tongue, the language almost natural after eight weeks here. He addressed the militia as a group, spreading his arms to them, smile still fixed. “Heaven’s Fifty, you are citizens as well. I invite you here, today, to join the rest of us in building a new city. Turn your back on the Monarch. Free yourselves.”

His eyes landed on Tarwin, who’d stayed silent.

Tarwin’s eyes glittered. “The Monarch frees us.” And they threw their club directly at Dick.

Dick took the blow to his chest in stride, letting out a  _ whoomph  _ of air and taking a knee. The Heaven’s Fifty began to move en masse towards him. This wasn’t good. Dick couldn’t fight fifty people and win. He glanced over his shoulder to see the citizens closest behind him shuffling back, away, nearly tripping over themselves in fear. All of them had their eyes on him. They expected him to fight for them. He looked up to the window to see Dyrnar looking down at him. He realized suddenly that this was his role, to fight alone for the people, whether or not he could win. That was the role the People’s Council had placed on his head, and it was coming crashing down around his ears, crushing him. Dick felt a weight drop into his stomach as he look at the fifty fighters bearing down on him.

If he had to fight, to save this mission, to save this city, so be it.

The Heaven’s Fifty surrounded him. They came at his a few at a time, the others hanging back. Dick dispatched the first few easily, with precise jabs and kicks. They started to attack in larger numbers, growing angry at seeing their comrades taken down so easily. 

Dick fought. He took down five, then ten, then fifteen, but there were too many, and they were hardened fighters, if not the most skilled. One got in a lucky strike to his shoulder and his arms went numb and fuzzy, just long enough for another to make contact with his ribs. Dick hissed in pain and whacked the attacker over the head with his eskrima. Another blow to the arm, one to the leg, Dick went on the defensive, ducking and flipping, but there was just no end to them. He took a hit to the same side of the ribs, and his knees buckled. 

It was over. 

One behind him gave him a vicious jab to the kidney and Dick fell forward into the dirt. He lashed out with a scissoring kick that took one down, but another came up on his side and smashed a booted foot into his face. Blood poured from his nose. Dick curled up in an attempt to shield his body from the blows that now rained on him. 

All at once they stopped, and Dick was about to gather his tired body for another attack when somebody grabbed him by the hair, hauling him up to wrap a thick forearm around his throat. It was Tarwin. Dick tried desperately to get his feet under him, to twist out of his enemy’s hold, but Tarwin was dragging him, too violently for Dick to do anything. He felt the bump of the wooden platform against his legs, and then he was turned around, to look out over the circle of smug militia, and beyond to the crowd of citizens gazing up at him in horror. Tarwin increased the pressure on Dick’s windpipe, a reminder not to try anything.

“Look!” Tarwin called to the square. “This is your champion! This is your precious Nightwing, your off-worlder! He tried to meddle, to interfere and look where it got him!”

The square was dead silent. The edges of Dick’s vision were starting to go fuzzy.

“Anything you’d like to say before the end, off-worlder?” Tarwin asked, and Dick’s vision cleared as some of the pressure was taken off his windpipe.

Maybe Tarwin was expecting grovelling or apologies after the humiliating defeat Dick had just suffered. But as Dick looked out over the thousands of faces looking up at him -- up to him, -- a fire ignited somewhere deep inside him. Part anger, at the thousands of citizens who hadn’t helped him, who put everything on his shoulders, part fear and protectiveness for those same people. He didn’t want this responsibility, but now it was his all the same.

“Yes,” Dick croaked, then tried again. “Yes, I have something to say. I am just one person. There’s only so much I can do. More than that, or perhaps less than that, I’m an off-worlder. This isn’t my home. Any responsibility I feel towards you all is nothing compared to the care and responsibility you feel towards each other.”

“A touching speech --” Tarwin said.

“I’m not done yet,” Dick interrupted loudly. “Just now I fought for you. None of you came to help me.” There was a small stirring deep in the crowd. “So I was beaten. There are too many of them for one person to defeat. But I’ll tell you something. There are too many of you for them to defeat.”

The square was silent, the tension palpable in the air. 

“That’s enough of that,” Tarwin growled, suspicion in their voice, and Dick’s air was cut off again. They began to tug Dick back off the platform.

There was a whistle in the air, then the THWACK of stone on flesh. Tarwin shrieked and Dick was released. Tarwin shoved their way to the front of the platform, clutching their hand.

“Who did that?” they bellowed.

A soft rumbling rippled deep in the depths of the crowd. Tarwin turned back and swiped at Dick to regain a hold of him. Dick deftly avoided them and gave Tarwin a small shove as they went past, sending them crashing into their comrades at the base of the platform.

Dick stood on the platform alone, and every eye in the square was on him. No one moved.

Dick took a deep breath, and exhaled, then spoke. “I alone cannot save you, as much as you would wish me to. I cannot overcome your enemies. But you can. Together, you can rebuild our city. You alone can save yourselves.”

The rumbling returned, louder than before, thickening the air.

“Ridiculous.” Tarwin was back up, the Heaven’s Fifty gathered about them. “Get him.” 

There was a yelp from the back of the militia and one of them crumpled. Behind them, a single citizen was holding up a heavy frying pan in trembling arms. The militia stood in shock. The rumbling reached a crescendo and the tension in the air reached a breaking point.

It snapped.

“Get them!” a citizen screamed and the crowd charged forward.

“For Nightwing!”

“For Anthorann!”

Dick felt his heart soar, them quickly lept into the fray, trying to keep as many citizens from being injured as possible.

It was over in no time. The Heaven’s Fifty lay scattered and defeated at the feet of the platform, which Dick was being lifted onto by many hands. Cheers echoed off all sides of the square. Dyrnar was there, smiling and crying.

“Please, guys,” Dick was grinning like a maniac, trying to push away the bodies trying to embrace him, the hands that tried to clutch at his uniform. A hush fell as people saw him back up in the platform. Dick realised with no small amount of embarrassment that they wanted him to speak again.

“Um.” He cleared his throat. “Today...” He felt so awkward, and so proud. “This is your city. To rebuild. I had nothing to do with it. The triumph is yours.”

There were cheers and whoops and people began to press forward, towards the voting building.

Suddenly above all the noise there was  _ CRACK. _

Someone screamed.


	11. 11

CRACK!

The great stone lid to the coffin split as it hit the ground. Jason stood from where he’d been crouching to get below the lip of the lid. It had been heavy, but there was nothing like channeling rage into your muscles to give you strength in Jason’s opinion.

The dust settled. None of them looked in. Damian still clung to Tim’s arm, the alienness of that sensation barely registering with Tim. All he could feel was a deep desire to turn and run. He didn’t want to see Dick’s body. Dick’s body. The phrase was all wrong. He hated the wrongness of it, and how everything took forever to sink in.

Jason leaned over the coffin, and promptly gripped the edge to prop himself up. Tim could see the cut of his hunched shoulder blades, shaking. After a moment, Jason gave up and sank to the ground, and gave one retching cough. Tim went to him, leaving poor Damian standing there, swaying like a cut pine about to fall.

“I can’t do it,” Jason murmured.

“You can, Jason…” Tim gripped his upper arm, feeling oddly steady in the act of supporting his older brother.

“No I can’t,” he insisted, brushing Tim off. “I can’t carry him, I can’t  _ touch  _ him, he looks so…”

Jason didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Tim peered into the coffin and felt his lungs seize. Dick could have been sleeping. The man he’d argued with. Fought with. Fought side by side with. Would have died for. He was lying on a bed of preserved blue flowers, immaculate and still in the way that nothing was except in death.

Damian took a tilting step forward, his lips stumbling on unformed sound. Tim stood quickly and scooped Damian up into his arms before the boy could have a proper chance to look in. Damian didn’t protest.

Tim turned back. “Jason?”

“Yeah.” Jason closed his eyes and reached into the coffin, disturbing the flowers and sending azure petals floating into the air.

Tim hadn’t thought he was going to cry. Not soon, certainly not today. He usually didn’t. But a prickling warmth was spreading across his face as Jason lifted Dick’s body from its stone tomb.


	12. 12

Dick felt warmth spreading across his chest. He brought his hand up to his chest, just over his heart. When he brought it away, there was blood. There was a slight ringing in his ears. Where had all the noise gone? Someone’s arms were around him. It didn’t help. The world tilted sideways, and the wooden platform rose up to meet him. There were horrified faces level with his, but through a straight break in between the bodies, he could see something. A glint he knew well, a shape that didn’t belong. A gun. An enemy -- Tarwin, a smirk on their face. Tarwin was holding a gun. Dick wanted to shout, tell everyone to get down, but nothing worked. No wait. Guns were forbidden on Anthorann. Dyrnar had said so. The Monarch must have given it to Tarwin. Why wasn’t Dick’s brain working? Someone was shaking him, yelling. He shifted and there was red below him. Something was wrong. His training said nobody should lose that much blood or else. His training. The pool was growing, and something else was demanding Dick’s attention. Pain. Pain radiating from his chest. He was rolled onto his back, and Dick stared up into Dyrnar’s frightened eyes. The world was sharpening, his mind picking up pace as the pain spread. But it wasn’t spreading everywhere. His legs were starting to go numb.

“Dyrnar?” He mumbled the name, his lips barely forming the sounds.

Dyrnar responded in a different language. Dick’s brain translated. To shoot, past tense. You, singular. The term for ‘alright’ or ‘okay.’ “You will be.”

“Bruce.” The name escaped his lips before his brain caught up. “I need…”

But no. Bruce was light years away, at home with Tim and Damian and…

Tears pricked Dick’s eyes. He brought up a hand that felt too big and clawed at his mask until it came off. It was getting hard to breathe.

“Dyrnar, please…” It should be Bruce’s arms around him. Bruce had always been there in times like this.

“You’ll be fine, you’ll be okay.”

Dick looked up at the only real friend he had in this corner of the universe. Dyrnar was lying. Dick grabbed the front of his friend’s shirt with every ounce of strength he had left.

“Please, Dyrnar. I need to go home.”

Dyrnar cradled him, rocking and crying. Dick couldn’t feel his legs at all now, but he could feel his heartbeat. It was growing, louder and stranger in his head. There wasn’t enough air. Dick gasped and gagged as his lungs spasmed. It hurt it hurt.

He held on to Dyrnar, tears still flowing.

“Please, I need Bruce. I need Barbara. I need Jason.” Any of them, all of them. The names pressed to the forefront of his mind, his dearest ones. Dick wasn’t sure if the words were actually making it out of his mouth, but he was grasping for them, gasping for them. He needed them. Where were they. His heart clenched with hurt. Where were they? It went back to its stuttering beat.

“I need Cass. I need Tim. I need Alfred. I need…”

His strength left him. His gaze wandered up to the blue blue sky of the strange world as his heart sputtered, fading. Fluttered, like a little spring bird.

“Damian.”

Someone was singing. A strange song in an alien language. Singing a song of silence.

Dick closed his eyes.


	13. 13

Trillions of miles and a short time away, Bruce watched four figures emerge from the zeta tube. Tim carrying Damian came first. Jason followed behind, bearing Dick’s body. Jason gently gave him over into Bruce’s arms, then softly, silently, left the room, leaving cold black fury in his wake. Bruce wondered when he would see him again.

The body in Bruce’s arms. So light, yet so heavy. No one had thought to bring in a gurney or a stretcher. Neither he nor Barbara nor Alfred had left the room since the boys had left. Bruce simply gestured to desk. Tim shoved everything off with a clatter that grated the eardrums. Bruce laid out his son in the cold metal.

The Rannians had preserved him. Dick had always looked young, with his bright grin, but he wore death like an old man. It had stalked his footsteps; everyone in that room knew the sight of its shadow.

And yet still so young. There were still traces of the young boy who’d cried in Bruce’s arms, hidden in the curl of Dick’s dark hair.

He hadn’t been there for him. When it had mattered, Bruce hadn’t been there. Perhaps, if he had been, he could have done something. Perhaps it wouldn’t have ended this way. Bruce knew his brain would play this game for days, weeks, the rest of his life. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

Cold was settling over Bruce, cold like heavy water.

No father should have to bury his son.


	14. 14

Something about the night called Bruce out. Not to the rooftops of his city, but out to the cemetery, to his son. Perhaps it was the crisp air and the cheshire-grin moon. Bruce strode through the wet, silver-lined grass to the rectangle of freshly turned earth.

They’d buried Dick early that day, under a sky blue as eyes, under his old headstone. Bruce had meekly suggested getting him a new one. Damian had shook his head. Bruce wasn’t sure why the boy prefered the old one. He wasn’t sure Damian knew quite why either. Cass had coaxed Damian into going out with the group of them. She seemed to be the only one who could properly communicate with the boy right now.

There would be a larger memorial tomorrow. Up in the tower, for the league and the people who’d known Dick Grayson for the man he was. The thought of going back up to the tower made Bruce’s guts roll.

The day after that would be an even larger memorial, with a side of press conference. Gotham mourning their golden son. Bruce wasn’t thinking about it.

Today had just been for his family. Bruce had been surprised when Jason had showed up, parking his bike on the lawn. He’d kept his distance. When Bruce approached, he only asked why Dick hadn’t been cremated.

Bruce had looked at his second son, then at his youngest son, kneeling tearless at the edge of the grave, fist curled white into the grass. They all knew why Dick had been buried whole. None of them allowed it to even whisper in the depths of their hearts and minds. There was just something about this family.   
Bruce stood at the edge of the turned earth. Grass would try to grow here, but Bruce knew it would constantly be worn down to brown earth by the living feet and shaking knees and tears that would fall here, the habitual visitors coming like clockwork. 

“Hey Dick.” 

The words fell from broken lips, spilling into the silence hanging in the autumn air, and Bruce’s heart shattered.

He’d thought it couldn’t hurt anymore. Any more. Perhaps this would be it. This pain would finally kill him. Bruce’s knees buckled, and he collapsed, letting the cold earth soak his knees. Salt stained his face. His voice came in and out, sobs mixed with cries of rage. 

No trick this time. No fake. Dick, his oldest son, his companion, was gone.

The cold night swallowed the sound of his voice as it turned ragged and rasping. Bruce still grieved, cradled in the silence of night after death.


End file.
